


Invincible

by torches



Category: Batman (Comics), Superman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-14
Updated: 2005-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-09 22:09:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torches/pseuds/torches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Superman is invincible. Or so Tim thinks. Doomsday comes, and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invincible

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the [Timfinity](http://lovesetfire.com/to_timfinity/andbeyond.html) challenge.
> 
> Acknowledgments: To Te, for helping me fall in love with Tim enough to want to write a story about him. To Frip (or Lou) for telling me about that one cover of "Jimmy Olsen, Superman's Pal." To Ang, Zee, LC, Petra, Whit, Eryn, and all the #dcu crew for being there when I wasn't, and for setting me straight. To my local comic shop, for having the TPBs I needed to check for accuracy. To DC Comics, for creating the characters in the first place.

_O darkest woe!  
Ye tears, forth flow!  
Has earth so sad a wonder?  
God the Father's only Son  
Now lies buried yonder._

O sinful man,  
It was the ban  
Of death to thee that brought him  
Down to suffer for thy sin,  
And such woe hath wrought him.

Behold thy Lord,  
The Lamb of God  
Blood-sprinkled lies before thee,  
Pouring out his life that he  
May to life restore thee.

***

Tim opened his eyes, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep. He'd lain there, eyes closed, hoping the images would fade. Eventually he realized they would always be there waiting for him when he closed his eyes, and opened his eyes so he would have something else to look at.

The room was cluttered and confused, with newspaper clippings and posters of Superman covering the wall immediately facing Tim. James Olsen took some of the pictures. His roommate was, as usual, still asleep, snoring loud enough that Tim often wondered if the headmaster's frequent night-time checkups were more due to his excessive loudness and not, as the headmaster claimed, for Tim's mental health.

Ah. And there was the usual knock. It must be three o'clock sharp, then. Tim rolled over on his side, away from the door, willing his breathing into a regular pattern. The headmaster opened the door, his head peeking through and blocking the light of the hallway. "Mr. Drake?" he said. "Are you all right?"

Tim silently cursed himself for his outburst earlier in the day. He pretended to be half-roused by the headmaster's call, then stilled once again. The headmaster paused, half-convinced, then closed the door. Tim waited until the footsteps faded, then sat up and ran his hands through his hair. He closed his eyes, returning to the world of his dreams.

He could still feel the heat and smoke of unseen Haitian fires; feel an alien fire welling up inside, building up behind his eyes, its gaze sweeping before him, purifying the world, boiling the fragile humanity away to reveal the invincible alien core beneath it all.

He opened his eyes on a picture of Superman, cape charred and singed, tears falling down his face, with his hand tight but soft on a black-haired boy's shoulder. The boy was also crying. Tim knew that the article was written by Lois Lane and won Lane an award for journalistic excellence, the third she'd won that year. He knew the picture won James Olsen an award as well. He knew James preferred to be called Jimmy.

Tim knew if he looked close enough, he'd see the Superman doll the boy was clutching in his left hand, see the caption reading "Superman comforts Timothy Drake, 13, as he waits for news of his parents' current condition."

Tim hugged his knees to his chest, blinking furiously, shaking his head. None of that mattered now. None of it. He would not cry any more. He could not.

On his nightstand sat yesterday afternoon's paper. There was a man sprawled across the front page, his body broken, battered, bruised, his blue and red uniform torn to shreds. The headline read "SUPERMAN - DEAD;" Lois Lane wrote the story, and she'd probably win a Pulitzer. The ink was blotted in places where someone's tears had fallen, the newsprint smeared. Tim clutched his S-print pajamas with his hands, still stained with the cheap ink.

His fourteenth birthday was next week. Lois and Clark and Jimmy were going to take him out to dinner.

***

Lois blinked groggily; the left side of her face was pressed up against something slimy and soft, and she didn't recognize where she slept. This wasn't her couch she found herself sprawled on, those weren't her books; she didn't have a picture of her grandparents with acres of beautiful farmland behind them; she didn't have her high-school photo with that stupid goofy country-boy grin on her bookshelf. Clark.

Clark's hair, always with that ridiculous spitcurl, knotted and wet with freshly spilt blood; his cape torn off, snagged on a steel beam, four ragged slashes through the red and yellow fabric; his body, still warm in her grasp as tears fell from her face onto his unmoving chest, soaking his dust-caked shirt.

It was a shirt pressed up against her face: a white, starched shirt. It was one of his, one she'd grabbed last night when she stumbled her way to his apartment instead of hers, too upset, too lost to go anywhere else but to where he - had . . . once - lived. Lois sat up, rubbing at her face.

It was morning. It must be close to seven. Perry would -

_"Lane," he'd said, "your fiancee - Kent's a good man. If he's alive - look, if you need some time off, to go searching for him, take it. You wrote the goddamn story, Lois. You're probably going to win a Pulitzer - oh, hell." He put his hand to his head and began massaging his temples. "I can't ask for more than you're willing to give."_

She wrote the story. She wrote the story that would probably break her into the big time and earn her the award whose name was plastered all over her coffee mug. She stood by and watched her fiancee die, and she was going to win a useless piece of metal for her objectivity.

Lois walked over to Clark's small kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out the coffee can. As she scooped out the grains and dumped them into the filters Clark kept conveniently by the coffee machine, the tightness in her chest loosened. Work did that for her; physical activity, the great stress reliever. She flipped through the yellow pages of the notebook beside her, pausing at some thoughts jotted down in preparation for his next story, indecipherable to anyone unversed in the Kent variety of chicken-scratch. She ran her fingers along the scribbled note; soft script from a hand that could crush boulders into dust, a hand that she'd never feel the grasp of ever again. Her breath hitched.

Lois clutched the counter to steady herself. She rubbed her face with her right hand, willing herself not to cry. It wasn't fair, after all, for him to leave her behind to pick up the pieces. She didn't have his strength, his faith to fall back on. All she had was her writing. She had the Planet. "I'll go to work," Lois said. "I can do that. I have articles to write." She ignored the part of her that said there were other reporters at the Planet that could write those articles just as well. "I have articles to write," she said again, as if by saying it twice she could convince herself it was a plausible excuse. It didn't matter where she went or what she did; everything she could think of only reminded her of Clark.

Clark, the time they bought those sloppy hot dogs from the street vendor, clutching the bun as if he thought it would slip out of his grasp any second now, squeezing it so hard that was precisely what happened after he took a bite; Clark, sitting at his desk, clattering away at whatever story he was working on at the moment, the very picture of journalistic devotion; Clark, eyes soft, his hand warm against her side as they danced, whispering her earlier comment about country boys and romantics into her ear; Clark smiling, dressed in blue and yellow and red, wearing the suit his mother had sewn herself; Clark's arms curled around her waist as they flew above the city, holding her pressed against his impossibly-strong chest to keep her warm; Clark, eyes hard and strong, facing down the future, cold and dark and bone-grey.

The knock at the door broke her from her reverie. She straightened, wiped the wetness from her eyes, and opened the door. She sighed. Smiling at the young man and boy standing outside Clark's apartment, Lois gestured for them to step inside.

"Hi, Jimmy," she said. "Hi, Tim. Come on in." She walked into the kitchen. "I was just making some coffee. Interested?"

***

He had been three; Jimmy had been thirteen.

He'd remembered the boy sitting ringside at the circus, the little disposable camera clutched in his hands that the boy often brought up to his face, flash snapping, the light washing across everything before the boy's face, an outward glow that meant for just that single moment everything touched by that light belonged to the boy forever. Remembered how the boy's camera came up to his face, light snapping across the hunched forms in the shadows that nobody was supposed to see. Remembered the cry of "Jimmy" from the boy's mother, the first wild shot that grazed her arm, blood spattering over her pretty green dress.

Tim remembered the blur that swooped down over the crowd then; the crunch and crack and sizzle as the men's weapons were crushed and melted; the suddenness of their savior's disappearance, as sudden as his appearance, stopped in his motion, however briefly, by the flash of the boy's camera. The picture appeared in the next day's paper, a blurred figure dressed in a suit and tie.

For his fourth birthday, Tim got a camera - a real special one, a Nikon 1550 with exchangeable lenses. The newspapers were still talking about the blur. It wasn't the Flash - the Daily Star popped the question in an exclusive interview in the summer and he said he hadn't even known the circus was in town until it had been splashed all over the papers the next day. "Besides," he said, "I'm not the only superhero who runs fast, you know." It wasn't anyone else. Tim checked; nobody but the Flash family could move that fast. None of them were anywhere close to Metropolis the day of the circus. However, Clark Kent had seen the circus that day, as part of an early high school graduation present of a trip to the big city he adored. Tim didn't find that out until much later, and by that point he'd already figured it out anyway.

When Tim was nine, he found out where Jimmy Olsen lived and showed him his photographs. Jimmy had just started as a cub reporter at the Daily Planet.

***

Tim latched onto Lois' chest in a bearhug and didn't let go. Lois put her arms around him, patting his back until he stopped quivering. "It's okay," she said. She looked up at Jimmy. "Did he - ?"

Jimmy's suit was rumpled like he'd picked it up from where he left it, the sleeve dark and stiff where he'd helped Lois pick Clark's body up. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, and there were dark circles under his eyes. "Ran into him coming up the steps," he said, shrugging.

Lois knelt down to look at Tim. "You aren't skipping school again, are you?" she said.

"Clark is family," Tim said. "Family comes first."

"Tim," Lois said. "Oh, Tim. Please. You know how much -"

"I told them my father had died." Tim couldn't look her in the eye.

Jimmy's eyes widened. "Tim, you didn't."

"No, I didn't," Tim said, "and I'm sure they'll figure out that -" his voice caught "- Clark isn't actually dead as far as the records are concerned - and hold me accountable." He paused, exhaling. "Only they won't. Because Superman is dead. And they know how much he means to me. And they'll take pity on me. They always do."

Jimmy rustled Tim's hair. "You really do think about these things too much, kiddo." Tim watched his eyes. He knew that look, that faraway wistful look, where the gazer is trying to convince himself if things just work normally, then they should be normal.

Tim stared down at his feet. It was about protection. That's what it was about. He didn't have unbreakable skin, like Clark. He had to be invulnerable in other ways. "But we have to," he said. Tim blinked rapidly. "Who'll protect us now? He's - Clark's - Superman is dead. We - we've got to think about these things, or - or -"

Tim had thought he was out of tears.

***

Tim couldn't wait to show Mr. Olsen the new pictures. Oh, he knew Mr. Olsen had said to call him "Jimmy," but Tim swore he'd always be "Mr. Olsen" to Tim. Tim had gotten real close to Superman this time. He'd been close enough to feel the heat when the big robot blasted Superman in the chest with that really big laser.

Tim dashed up the steps, clutching the packet of photos tightly to his chest. He was so focused on the fight (wow Superman moved so fast) that he didn't notice the man stepping out of the door until he'd hit him in the waist at full gallop and bounced back, hitting the ground. Tim looked up, blinking and squinting through the stars encroaching at the edges of his vision. He gaped. "Wha - ?"

"Hello there," the man said, adjusting his glasses and smiling. "You look like you're in a hurry. I'm Clark Kent. What can I do for you?"

"I was gonna take these pictures in to show Mr. Olsen, Su - sir," Tim said, because that's what the teachers told him to say when he addressed someone older than he was. And Tim knew that whatever this man's name was it couldn't possibly be Clark Kent.

"You plan on being a reporter here someday, son?" Mr. Kent said. "This big place?"

"It's not so big," Tim said. "It's where you work, right, sir? And where Mr. Olsen and Miss Lane work, too. They're my friends, and any place with friends in it can't be that big, can it?"

Mr. Kent smiled and laughed softly. "No, I guess it wouldn't be," he said. "I was about to go on my lunch break, but I can escort you up to where Jimmy is. And you don't have to call me sir, you know. Makes me feel old."

"Would you, S - Mr. Kent? Really?" Tim smiled a smile bright enough to power half a city block. "Thanks!"

"It's my pleasure," Mr. Kent said, and ruffled his hair.

Tim grinned, eyes wide and shining, and followed Superman home.

***

"We can't even say goodbye to him, can we?" Jimmy said, hands wrapped around the coffee cup to keep them from shaking. "I mean - look, nobody else here in Metropolis knows who Superman really was, right? It's - it's just us."

Tim looked down at his own hands, clasped tightly in his lap, white-knuckled. His eyes were puffy and red from crying earlier. "We can't be alone," Tim said. He looked up at Jimmy and Lois. "There has to be someone else. We can't be alone . . ."

Lois shut her eyes tight. "Do you know, he really was thinking about settling down someday. He said he'd come back. He said everything would work out, that he'd stop this monster and it would all be over." She hugged herself. "My fiancee is dead, and I have no shoulder to cry on."

Jimmy made a small, upset noise.

Lois raised her hand. "You've had enough of my tears on your shoulder, Jimmy." She stared at him. "You're one of the closest friends Clark and I ever had, but I can't ask you to always be there for me. I couldn't ask that of anybody."

Tim touched Jimmy's sleeve. "Uhm," he said.

Jimmy turned to him. "Say it, Tim," he said.

"We're here," Tim said, fidgeting with his hands, "and . . . we love you. That's what people do when they love each other. That's what we do. If people love you then they're always there for you. Clark taught me that."

Lois smiled despite herself. "Oh, Tim," she said. She held out her arms. "C'mere." Tim stepped closer, and she hugged him. A moment later he returned the gesture.

***

Metropolis was bright shining clean and all right angles. There were days Tim felt like he was walking the streets of some alien city. Then other days he was in the offices of the Planet and suddenly the brightness, that clean and new sensation, filled him up and he felt like Metropolis was where he was born to be.

"Hey, Tim." It was Lois who greeted him - Lois Lane, wearing that beautiful ring on her finger that S - no, Clark had given her. "So what've you got for us today?"

Tim grinned. "I was in the East End today," he said, "and - "

Lois' eyes narrowed. "Tim. The East End is dangerous. Very dangerous."

"Clark goes there all the time," Tim said. He looked down at his feet.

"Yes, but Clark's a re - wait, how would you know where Clark's been?"

Tim looked up, grinning wider than before. "I followed him."

Lois blinked, then she smiled. "You're going to make a good reporter," she said, only half in jest.

Tim beamed. "You think so? Really?"

"You're a sneaky, nosy, tenacious little brat, kid," Lois said, ruffling Tim's hair, "and you can't stop searching for answers. In here, those virtues are all that matters."

Tim stared at her, lost in thought. Then he leaned up and whispered in her ear, "What if I told you I knew who Superman was?"

***

A few weeks after Lois clapped her hand over Tim's mouth and yanked him into her office, Jimmy tried to kill himself.

"Superman once told me that he believed in the 'central goodness of every human being,'" Jimmy said, his voice low and ragged. "I always thought that was pretty cool, because the guy's an alien, and he's got no reason to trust any of us - I mean, Darwin's theories. Rival species are supposed to, uh, annihilate each other, right? What could possibly happen between us except that we'd want him dead? Or vice versa?" He laughed.

Tim could hear the despair and hurt in Jimmy's voice and the laugh made it cut hard and deep, to the core, where Tim still felt like "home" was a place he could ever belong to and feel loved in. That place wasn't meant to come here, to the Planet. People cared at the Planet; if "home" meant anything to Tim anymore, it meant the smell of ink and cigar smoke and stale coffee. It meant a smile that reached up to the bright blue eyes hidden behind two wire-rimmed glasses. Tim felt sick.

"But you know, I've been thinking about that." Jimmy turned to look back at Tim. There were tears in his eyes. "What does a human life matter to an alien? We're not his kind. Why should he care beyond protecting the city - beyond the goal he's set for himself? Who is he that he thinks he can pretend to be -" Jimmy paused. His left hand clenched. "Never mind. Tell him I'm going to jump. I'll be waiting."

Tim stared at him, mouth open. "What?" He could feel his heart racing. He couldn't spare the glance up, but it felt like the huge globe atop the Planet building was about to tip off its axis. "Who?"

"Superman." Tim's world titled around him, the events unfolding like stop-motion, every second a stuttering explosion of blurred, fragmented light. "If he cares, he'll come."

"Wait! Why does it matter? What does it matter if Superman has a secret identity? Why does that mean you need to kill yourself?" The wind felt like it was ripping Tim's hair from his skull. _I care,_ he wanted to say. _I love you. I love Superman. I love Mr. Kent. I love Ms. Lane. I love you all more than I could imagine you ever loving me._ But the words didn't come. With a single gust, the icicle wind took his breath away.

Jimmy held something in his hands. He threw it to Tim. Tim stared at it. "You never know when you're just the cameraman. There's always that layer of objectivity separating who you are at home from who you are at the job. That matters, Tim. That matters a lot to me." He grinned. "I know how much you love my camera, Tim. I've caught you staring at it before. Go, hurry. Tell . . . Tell Clark Superman better hurry," Jimmy said, his voice low and just a little cracked.

"What good would telling Clark do?" Tim said, his mouth going dry. He knew the answer to that. He knew.

"I'm going to jump off of here in five minutes, Tim. It takes three to get to Clark's office from the roof. I timed it on the way up." Jimmy held his hand up to show Tim his watch. The second hand went tick-tick-tick round its face. Tim wasn't actually close enough to see it, but he could feel it bearing down on each digit, slowly winding down to a - stop. Jimmy's stop. End. Time. Invincible. Inexhaustible. The end. The end end end end end -

Jimmy pulled Tim to his feet, slapping him about. "You've got to tell him, Timmy. You've got to _tell_ him." Tim opened his eyes, shocked and big and blue. "GO!" Jimmy shouted, pushing Tim towards the door.

Tim stumbled, shaking himself out of his stupor, and ran down the stairs, cursing himself for being afraid. He had to tell Clark. Superman didn't let people die. He was invincible, and for as long as he lived, so would everybody in Metropolis. Including Tim. Including Jimmy.

Superman didn't let people die.

Behind him, Jimmy stepped up to the edge of the roof and said, "Clark - " but Tim couldn't hear the rest.

***

"Clark, don't you die on me."

"I love you, Clark."

"Oh, Clark."

"Mr. K - uh, Clark. Uhm. Thanks. For taking me in. I, uhm, I know you didn't have to sign those papers to - but uhm, thanks. Does this mean I live with you now?"

"Good morning, Clark. Sleep well?"

"CLARK! You gotta come you gotta you gotta -"

"Clark, if you can hear me - God, I hope I'm wrong - I think I hope I am - you saved my life before. I didn't know it was you then. But if it was you, then thanks. For everything. I'm going to jump now. I want an explanation. You or God, I don't care. I just want the truth about you."

"So long, Clark. Here I come."

"CLAAARRRK!"

***

"Is Clark -?"

Lois pressed her lips together to keep from biting them. "Dead? I - I think so. He's - how do you know?" She wrapped the cord around her fingers. "There's so much that - that I just don't know . . ."

"We raised him, Lois, and we barely know what he's capable of," Martha Kent said. "He's our son. We - we just have to hope, don't we?" Lois could hear the quaver in Martha's voice. Martha paused. "I - I suppose I should tell you this now. No better time? We - we'll be on the first plane to Metropolis tomorrow. Jon and I - it's too much to ask for us to stay here, isn't it? We'll be coming - to say goodbye to Clark. We wouldn't want to impose, after all, it's so sudden, we wouldn't want to impose on you at all, and I know that it must hurt so much - "

"Stop," Lois said. She couldn't stop her own voice from shaking. "Just - don't. Don't. Apologize. I - Clark and I loved each other. He was sweet and charming and kind and good-hearted and - and he talked about all the lessons you taught him all the time - do you know, one of the last things I remember discussing with him was where old Bessie came from." Lois couldn't keep the smile from her face. "He loved you very much. I owe him that much, that I can give his family a home to stay in while they say - say - goodbye."

"Thank you." Martha was silent for a moment, and Lois could hear among the background hiss the sound of her body collapsing into a chair.

"I just can't believe he's gone," Lois said.

"Neither can I," Martha said, her voice heavy and tired. "Neither can I."

***

It was over so fast.

The obeah man was still chanting, urging the men to step across the coals. The ground burned with the red-hot glare of the sun; the sky glowed pitch-black. Jack Drake licked his lips and wished he were back on the plane, sipping ice-cold water. He shivered. Huge, stinging drops of sweat pooled in his eyes and he blinked. He looked over at his wife Janet. She was no better than he was, her eyes half-lidded, panting, about to faint from heat exhaustion. Jack looked up into the sky, staring into the moon's leering, skeletal face.

And a dark shape flitted across the skull. Jack gasped.

The obeah man turned to them, his ever-present wicked smile reaching up to his very eyes, those orbs as black as the caves Jack had visited once on a dig, those endless, frightening depths that never failed to make him feel as small as humanity's smallest ancestor, all huddled and scared as the deep echoes of a giant's footsteps rumbled past. "You feel the end coming, Mr. Drake," the obeah man said, and his voice twitched and snarled like piano wires. "Is that why you gasp? Your company failed you, and soon you will die like the swine you are."

Jack gulped. His mouth tasted dry and foul from the rag that the obeah man had gagged him with. "It's over, obeah man. It's over."

The obeah man's smile faltered, replaced by confusion, but soon it returned as he stepped closer, bending over to grin into Jack Drake's face. "You're ready to die? Hardly likely coming from one such as yourself."

And the moat of coals, that bright ring of sun-heat, exploded behind him. Within the incendiary shower stood a shadow, red eyes fierce and narrow. "It's over, whoever you are," the shadow said. "They're coming with me." Superman stepped out of the moat.

The obeah man grabbed Janet and held his wicked-looking blade to her throat. "You can't harm me, demon, not while she still lives!" he shouted, his grin twisting even further up his face.

Superman narrowed his eyes. The obeah man's hand began to smoke, and he yelped, throwing the knife away. "Care to try that again?" Superman said, and began to step towards the man. He paused at the table where Jack sat tied up, and with a quick glance burnt the ropes away. Jack rubbed at his wrists, then staggered to his feet to go untie Janet.

"Come, men!" the obeah man shouted. "Do not be afraid! Step across the coals, and you shall be invincible! You have merely to trust in my power and this mad demon can be stopped!"

"I am no demon," Superman said, "and your parlor tricks won't stop me." He stepped closer. The obeah man's eyes showed their first signs of fear, then triumph.

"Parlor tricks, ehe? Perhaps my tricks are more potent than that, demon," he said, pointing behind Superman. Reflected in his black bottomless eyes were Jack and Janet Drake, gasping, eyes bulging. Beside them lay a broken pitcher of water, its poisoned contents sizzling on the hot ground. Superman's eyes widened in horror. He turned back to see the obeah man step onto the burning coals, his figure wavering in the heat. "Fool," the obeah man said. "Now choose, and choose wise."

Superman gritted his teeth, spun around, and scooped up the Drakes, wrapping his cloak about their twitching bodies. Then he shot up into the air, the force of his departure pulling the accoutrements of the voodoo ritual into the air with him. As he continued into the sky, they fell back to earth, splattering, splintering and sizzling upon impact.

The coals still burned in the night behind them, long after they had gone.

***

As Lois came back into the living room from the kitchen after she'd finished talking to Mrs. Kent, Tim looked up at her expectantly.

"They're coming," she said. That was all she needed to say. Tim put his head in his hands.

Jimmy slumped against the counter, his head bowed. "The funeral's this afternoon," he said. "I guess we'll all be saying good-bye, then."

Lois closed her eyes, breathing in. "It's seven-thirty, Jimmy."

Jimmy looked at her. "How can we possibly go back - ?"

"He's dead," Tim said. "What does it matter?"

Lois cradled her now-cold coffee mug. "He never gave up, Tim. He saved our lives, and he never once thought twice about it. He fought for the truth on the Planet's front page and on the streets of Metropolis. He never gave up, not once."

"He was invincible," Tim mumbled. "Unstoppable."

Jimmy sighed. "He wouldn't have given up on us, would he?" He pulled himself into a standing position. "He would have told us to keep going."

Lois nodded, unable to keep from shaking just a little bit.

Tim looked back and forth between the two of them, his face puffy but his eyes dry. "He wouldn't have wanted us hurt." He looked down at his feet. "I wanted to be him. To be that strong. I wanted to fly. In my dreams sometimes I was him. Nothing ever hurt him." He looked at his hands. "Invincible," he repeated. "Now . . ." Tim looked up, eyes crinkling. "I guess . . . I guess we have to be invincible for him."

Lois let out a long, shuddery breath. "Yes . . . yes, that's what we have to do, Tim." She steadied herself against the wall. "We have to be invincible."

Jimmy picked up his camera. He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Lois grabbed her bag. Tim stood up, putting his hands in his pockets. They all looked at each other for a moment as if still unsure what to do.

"Come on," Lois said. "There are still stories to be written, still pictures to take, still classes to attend." She shouldered her bag. "Let's get to work."


End file.
